Wild nights
Cairngorm bothying plans go awry
“IT IS NOT EVEN SAFE TO ASSUME THAT THE BOTHY YOU’RE HEADING FOR WILL BE AVAILABLE AT ALL”
The greatest wild sleeps don’t always go according to plan. In fact it’s the quirky curve balls that can often be most memorable. When it comes to bothies in particular, the unexpected is part of the deal. Will the stove be working, or have you lugged several kilos of coal just for the exercise? Is the roof still watertight, or might you end up wishing you’d brought a tent instead? Then, of course, there are the chance companions, those unknown other bothy inhabitants and their foibles who can make or break your night. Will they be grim-faced and unfriendly, or are you about to stumble into a whiskyfuelled party that rocks the rafters ’til dawn? Your new roomies might be oddballs, there’s bound to be a snorer... But just maybe you’ll meet a bunch of like-minded folk and make friends for life. You won’t know until you get there – and that, say bothy fans, is half the fun.
It is not even safe to assume that the bothy you’re heading for will be available at all. It could be locked when you arrive, or perhaps already full to bursting. When he wrote those famous lines about the best laid schemes of mice and men going ‘aft agley’, Robbie Burns could have had a Scottish mountain bothy in mind. The mouse bit certainly rings true.
In this spirit of openmindedness, of taking our chances and making the best of them, we set out for Corrour. By dint of its enviable location right at the heart of the Cairngorms, in the dramatic depths of the Lairig Ghru between Ben Macdui and Cairn Toul, Corrour is one of the best-known bothies in Scotland. Having it to yourself would be a rare treat. We did not dare expect that, but going midweek, out of holiday season, and on a lacklustre weather forecast, we had high hopes at least for a decent bit of floor space.
The traverse over the remote and sprawling summits of Beinn Bhrotain and Monadh Mor is hardly what you’d class a stroll in the park, and after a long hard day on the hill it was a relief when the bothy finally rose into view across the bogs. As we made our way wearily towards
it a light rain threatened.
By now we were looking forward to getting inside and out of the elements, with our peaty boots off and our feet up in front of the fire while a brew bubbled merrily.
As we drew near, two figures appeared outside.
So we wouldn’t be getting the place to ourselves after all. Dreams of our own private enclave in the wilds were replaced by thoughts of cheery camaraderie, drams and banter. This might not be so bad.
Ducking through the door, the first thing that struck us was how, well, tiny it is. The place seemed to have shrunk since our last visit. With a floor area like the box room of a cramped city flat, or a good- sized garden shed, this was going to be an intimate night. The existing occupants, a father and son from Berlin, seemed good company, but with so little space already we couldn’t help but feel like intruders. And then we spotted them – two sleeping bags laid out neatly on a wooden platform in the corner, like the apocryphal ‘towels on the sun lounger’. The Berliners thought they’d been ours, left out to bagsy the places while we had a day on the hill. And then there were six. When the mystery couple returned, things were clearly going to be tight.
We slunk back out to cook in the fresh air and plot our next move. As the stoves boiled, a cheery face appeared around the corner of the hut, and then three more
– a family of four, down from Cairn Toul. No, the sleeping bags weren’t theirs. And no, they didn’t have a tent.
They all seemed very nice. But 10 house mates is twice as many as you’d really want in Corrour. I began to recall a long-forgotten winter night in this very bothy when the postage stamp of a floor soon became invisible under tight-packed sleeping bags full of grumbling bodies, as latecomers arrived in dribs and drabs. By the time my walking companion had made it, some time around midnight, she was reduced to a foot-wide strip across the front door. Sleep had proved elusive, except of course for the guy who snored all night, and morning had been a confusion of other people’s wet socks, jabbing ice axes and stale farts. Not, alas, as much fun as it sounds.
Hardly keen on repeating this impromptu game of sardines, Tom and I exchanged surreptitious glances, our decision already made without a word. Luckily we’d both brought bivvy bags, top item on my personal justin- case list when packing for any bothy trip.
Feeling smug that we’d had the foresight, we muttered our excuses and slipped off in search of fresh air, peace and elbow room. Outside the bothy there’s plenty of all three, and we began casting around for a likely spot to throw down the bags. Tom soon called me over with an excited wave. He’d found the perfect plot not two
minutes away: a tiny island in the River Dee.
Reached by a short toe-numbing wade through icy spring meltwater, our kingdom for the night boasted what – in this neck of the woods – counts as an unbeatable list of mod cons: a sandy beach to bed down on; running water on tap; an unrivalled view of the magnificent Devil’s Point; and space to breathe. Relishing his role as dodgy mountain real estate agent, Tom blithely assured me that islands like this in mountain streams hardly ever flooded, but that should the worst happen we’d be safe in our Gore-Tex cocoons. It wasn’t as if we were spoilt for alternatives, so we stamped out a flat surface and lay back to watch the clouds. As light dimmed on the peaks I drifted off to the gentle burble of water all around, a lulling murmur so much more relaxing than the creaking and muttering of a busy bothy. The rain stayed off most of the night. Better yet, so did the midges. Perhaps they can’t swim. I felt almost sorry for our erstwhile bothy companions. You can sleep in a dingy hut any night of the week, but an exclusive islet in a highland burn? Now that’s a really wild night.